


Step Into my Parlour

by WolfMooneRyder



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, Origin Story, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Torture, Torture, that doesn't happen til later tho, this will be tagged for graphic violence later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-22 09:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8281279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfMooneRyder/pseuds/WolfMooneRyder
Summary: Before she was Widowmaker, she was Amélie Lacroix. She was a nice person, from what she can recall.





	1. Overture: Le Lamentation de la Veuve

_There is an old superstition in France:_ Araignée du matin, chagrin; araignée du soir, espoir _. A spider in the morning brings grief; a spider in the evening brings hope. It is a silly phrase, for silly children. I know better than to believe such nonsense. Spiders cannot bring hope to anyone; there is nothing in their hearts. They do not care if you feel hope or grief. In the end, the fly is still caught in the widow’s web._

Les enfants sont ignorants.

_They are lured in by the fake promises of hope and peace. It doesn’t matter to them that they are staring at a spider; they only see the peace they have learned to associate with it._

Ils sont insensés.

_When blinded by false beliefs of hope, goodness, and peace, the children are vulnerable. The widow strikes._

_It is amusing. One would think that the widow‘s first kill would be her best. It is not. It is her worst._

Elle était naïve.

_I do not remember her tale too well. I don’t particularly care to. She is a dead woman. Dead people have no place invading my thoughts. They do not matter. I am more efficient with less of her memories burdening me. Better shots. Better kills._

_Not that her memory was a burden to me in the first place. It is merely an annoyance. Like everything else is._

. . .

 _You wish to know her story? Tsk, tsk. Don't you already know it? Besides,_ c'est une histoire que personne ne veut entendre.

. . .

_If you ask so nicely…_

_She was naïve._

_She was broken._

_She got lost._

_She became me._

_She is dead._

_I am alive._

Fin.

Non, _that does not satisfy you, it seems._ Intolérable petite peste. _It is not your business to pry._

~~S'il te plaît, aide moi à me rappeler~~

_Enough. You want the story of Amélie Lacroix so badly? You want the truth? Fine. Then I shall give it to you._

~~Aide-moi~~

_You look uneasy._

~~Aide-moi~~

_Why?_

~~Trouve moi~~

_I agreed to tell you what you wanted to know._

~~Sauve-moi~~

_Did I not?_

~~S'il te plaît~~

_After all, no one can hide from me… not even Amélie Lacroix._

~~Aide-moi...~~

_Ah,_ ce matin est magnifique, _is it not?_

~~S'il te plaît…~~

_Amélie Lacroix, Amélie Lacroix… such a sweet, foolish girl._

_The first memory of hers I am left with begins in the cold of night, with a house spider and a poem._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
> Please tell me if any of these are incorrect! While I am in HN French 4, I am still far from a fluent French speaker.  
>  **Edit: Thank you to Pyjaks for correcting my French! :) ******  
>   
> Les enfants sont ignorants – Children are stupid  
>  Ils sont insensés – They are foolish  
> Elle était naïve – She was naïve  
> C'est une histoire que personne ne veut entendre – It is a story no one wants to hear  
> Intolérable petite peste – Insufferable little pest  
> S'il te plaît – Please  
> Aide-moi – Help me  
> Trouve moi – Find me  
> Sauve-moi – Save me  
> S'il te plaît, aide moi à me rappeler - Please, help me to remember  
> Ce matin est magnifique – This morning is beautiful


	2. Chapitre 1: Froid

 

_“Memories are colored by those who remember them."_

* * *

  ** _Winter of 2049_**

It was a cold Tuesday night when Amélie Bissette saw a large house spider crawling across the floor.

At first she sat still, frozen at the sight of it simply sitting on the wall. She had never seen a spider so large in her life. It was ugly. _Répugnant_.

…Creepy.

It scurried to the floor, and Amélie froze. Her eyes widened. Her heart beat in her ears. She shrieked.

“MAMAN! PAPA!!”

* * *

**_~The previous night~_ **

“ _D’accord,_ Amélie,” Maman called into her room, “Have you washed up for bed?”

“ _Oui_ maman,” Amélie replied. She was wearing a nice lavender nightgown, patiently waiting in the warmth of her bed for her maman to come read their nightly bedtime story.

Her maman opened the door, a familiar book in tow. It was a book of English poems and nursery rhymes, translated into French, of course. They had read so many stories from it… One Amélie remembered in particular was _Little Bo Peep._

“Now,” Maman smiled as she settled into the bed next to her and opened the book, “where were we?”

Amélie breathed in the scent of the worn pages and binding as she searched for where they left off. “The middle somewhere, I think.”

Her maman turned to where she specified. “Ah, here it is. _L’araignée et La Mouche._ _The Spider and the Fly.”_

Amélie curled up on her maman’s side, settling in for the story. “I’m ready.”

With that said, her maman began to read.

 

> “'Step into my parlour,' said the Spider to the Fly,
> 
> 'Tis the prettiest parlour that ever you did spy;
> 
> The way to my parlour is up a winding stair,
> 
> And I've a many curious things to show when you are there.'
> 
>  
> 
> 'Oh non, non,' said the little Fly, 'to ask me is in vain,
> 
> For who goes up your winding stair
> 
> -can never come down again.'
> 
>  
> 
> 'You must be weary, _chérie_ , with soaring up so high;
> 
> You must rest upon my bed,' said the Spider to the Fly.
> 
> 'There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
> 
> And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!'
> 
>  
> 
> 'Oh non, non,' said the little Fly, 'for I've often heard it said,
> 
> They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!'
> 
>  
> 
> Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, 'Dear friend what can I do,
> 
> To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?
> 
> I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;
> 
> I'm sure you're very welcome — will you please to take a slice?'
> 
>  
> 
> 'Oh non, non,' said the little Fly, 'kind sir, that cannot be,
> 
> I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!'
> 
>  
> 
> 'Sweet creature!' said the Spider, 'you're witty and you're wise,
> 
> How handsome are your wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
> 
> I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
> 
> If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.'
> 
>  
> 
> 'I thank you, gentle sir,' she said, 'for what you're pleased to say,
> 
> And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day.'
> 
>  
> 
> The Spider turned her round about, and went into his den,
> 
> For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:
> 
> So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
> 
> And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.
> 
>  
> 
> Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
> 
> 'Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
> 
> Your robes are green and purple — there's a crest upon your head;
> 
> Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!'
> 
>  
> 
> Alas, alas! How very soon this silly little Fly,
> 
> Hearing her wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
> 
> With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
> 
> Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue —
> 
> Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing!
> 
>  
> 
> Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
> 
> He dragged her up her winding stair, into her dismal den,
> 
> Within his little parlour — but she never came out again!
> 
>  
> 
> And now dear little children, who may this story read,
> 
> To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you never give heed:
> 
> Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,
> 
> And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly."
> 
>  

By the end of the tale, cold shivers were running through Amélie’s spine. The warmth of her bed and her maman’s chest seemed so far away now, just thinking of those words…

_He dragged her up her winding stair... she never came out again..._

Her maman didn't seem to notice Amélie’s stiffness as she laid a kiss on her forehead. “ _Bonne nuit, mon trésor._ ”

* * *

**_~Present~_ **

Her papa swept the spider away with the vacuum cleaner.

At first, Amélie almost felt bad for it. To be suddenly sucked up by a strong gust of wind that came without warning into an enclosed sack, with no way to know if you’d die or not… She wouldn’t wish death on anyone, let alone in that fashion.

She almost felt bad. But then she remembered:

**_The Spider turned her round about, and went into his den…_ **

Spiders feel nothing.

**_For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again…_ **

Spiders are killers.

**_So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly…_ **

Spiders are cold.

**_And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly._ **

Spiders are cruel.

**_He dragged her up her winding stair, into her dismal den, within his little parlour — but she never came out again._ **

Spiders’ hearts are still.

So whatever guilt Amélie felt towards the spider was replaced with a great fear, and the guilt left over became pity for the fly.

* * *

_Thinking back, I can almost remember a fly in the spider’s mouth._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  **Edit: Once again, thanks to Pyjaks for correcting my French mistakes :) ******  
> Répugnant- Disgusting  
>  D’accord – Okay  
> Chérie - Darling  
> Bonne nuit, mon trésor – Good night, my treasure.
> 
> I'm pretty sure The Spider and the Fly poem is public domain... at any rate, the poem's not mine so all credit for that goes to the original poet. I just tweaked a few words :3


	3. Chapitre 2: Boîte à Musique Ballerina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack to this chapter, if you're interested: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nsfudjaM5Dk

_"Tell me the last time you danced, and I will tell you the last time you were happy.”_

* * *

_I had always wanted to be a ballet dancer._

_A bit predictable, no? A French girl, yearning to be a ballerina… It seems a bit stereotypical. But it was what I wanted to do. Rather, it was what_ Amélie _wanted to do. Something about spinning and turning and jumping and leaping... it drew her in. I'm not sure why. Anyone can spin. Anyone can jump. What would make her special? Nothing. She would simply spin and jump and turn and leap for strangers who would applaud her efforts. And yet, she was still enamored. Heh._ Naïve fille _._

_I still remember the first ballet she ever saw:_  Giselle, ou les Wilis.

_It would have been... the spring of 2050. It was dark, but I can still see the dead women shrouded in shadows. They wear silver veils and ivory gowns, almost as if they were brides. Brides of what, I wonder? Brides of death, perhaps. Before that, however, there was a peasant girl. She was pretty, from what I recall. Pretty, nice, and happy._

_She died in the face of a lie._

_In death she was so graceful, so elegant... like she did not even know she was dead. It looked so... effortless._

_Amélie wanted to look like that while she danced. Effortless. As if she was floating on air. Gliding across the stage._ _I suppose that is one thing we have in common: a talent for making the impossible seem effortless._   _That is, if you could call dancing impossible._

_But then, it is as I said. Anyone can turn. Anyone can leap._

_. . ._

_...You know, the wilis are the spirits of betrayed lovers. They spend their afterlife wallowing in misery and hatred, angry at their existence. They are still until they are alone. When they are alone, they dance. It is a beautiful dance, a mourning of lives lost and unfortunate circumstances._ _I think Amélie would fit in rather nicely with them. Perhaps you should search for her there._

_Perhaps not?_ Merde.  _You know it's rude to pry, angel. You cannot force yourself where you are not wanted. I would think you of all people would know this. Or perhaps you were never taught that. I wouldn't be surprised._

_Ah, I hit a nerve, didn't I? Admit what you like; I know a delicate subject when I see it._

_..._

_Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do here. You're trying to revive her. Trying to coax her from the back of my subconscious. You will not succeed. She will continue dancing in the dark, turning round and round to the same tune._

_Besides, I know what resurrection does to people. I want absolutely no part of it._

~~je suis déjà un monstre~~

_Why should I continue? What kind of pleasure is this giving you?_

_..._

_You **don't** enjoy it, you say? Why, my condolences to you, chérie. You miss a dead woman. You will get over it. What you don't seem to understand, chére, is that what is dead is meant to stay dead._

_What's gone is gone. What's dead is dead. It is the same concept. Everything considered, I think Amélie would rather be a wili._

_..._

_That's actually how I first met him, you know. Dancing. It was after a showcase my university was performing the fall of 2061._

_...I don't like thinking about him. My second kill was hardly any better than my first._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just watched all of Five Nights at Freddy's Sister Location a couple days ago and I was reading this in Circus Baby's voice... help me  
> Also please keep in mind that Widowmaker's opinions are not my own. I know dancing is difficult. I danced 13 1/2 years, ever since I was 3 1/2, so trust me, I know how hard it is. (I also know the pain of pointe shoes. Owwwwwwwwwww.)
> 
> French Translations:  
> Naïve fille - Naïve girl  
> Merde - Shit  
> Je suis déjà un monstre - I am already a monster


	4. Chapitre 3: Mensonge

_“I was crying in an alley when I first met him.”_

* * *

  ** _Fall of 2061_  **

It took everything in Amélie to keep from collapsing into a sobbing mess as soon as the curtain touched the ground. _Non,_ this could not have happened. She had been so confident, so sure it would go right; she had worked so hard… but there had been a slippery patch on the stage. She had managed to keep her balance in rehearsals, so she thought it wouldn’t be a problem. It was. She tumbled.

There seemed to be a collective gasp rippling through the theatre as she slipped and fell on her backside. She recovered as gracefully as she could after falling on her bum and had continued on as if nothing had happened, to her credit. But the damage was done. She had committed possibly the most humiliating act one could ever do onstage: slipping and falling on the cold stage straight on the butt.

She had tried to forget that it had happened, but the concerned faces of her fellow dancers, eerie stillness of the audience, and the cold of the stage that still seemed to be lingering on her behind only reminded her further.

She felt off for the rest of the performance. She did her best to hide it, but she was pretty sure she failed in that department. _Imbécile, tu es un_ imbécile-!

“Amélie?” She startled at the unexpected voice that interrupted her thoughts, “ _Es-tu d’accord_?”

Amélie looked up to see Lucette Savatier, a nice enough girl that was in many of her classes. A moment later the stage behind Savatier came into focus and she realized with a jolt that they were the only ones left on stage. How long had she been wallowing in her own self-pity after bows?

_Es-tu d’accord?_

Her inner thoughts were reeling. _No, I’m not. I blew it. I failed. The star of the show doesn’t fall onstage. Odette doesn’t fall onstage. I will never be cast again. I am an embarrassment to this university._

But to Lucette, she forced a small smile.

“I am fine, Lucette. But thank you for your concern.”

* * *

The trip back to the dressing room was a blur. Amélie was in a trance as she took off her makeup and put on her street clothes. She was too absorbed in her thoughts, which were turning more and more into a breakdown by the second.

_I failed._

_…Bissette…_

_I ruined the show._

_I’m finished._

_They will never pay me any mind again._

_Bissette…_

_I-_

“Bissette!”

Amélie jumped before she could pull her other arm through the sleeve of her shirt. Her instructor was looking at her with her arms crossed. Amélie’s heart dropped into her stomach. Gulping a lump down her throat, she turned to her teacher.

“M-Madame, I-… _je suis désolé je suis tombée_! I don’t know what happened-!”

But her instructor’s hand rose. “I can see you are emotionally compromised in the light of your mistake. We can talk about this after you calm down, if you wish.” Her voice was not as stern as it usually was, Amélie noted subconsciously.

She wanted to say thank you. She should. This was her teacher after all, so she should show respect. But there were too many emotions running through her head, too many thoughts, too many concerns, too many “what-ifs”…

And so, the most Amélie could manage was an uncertain nod.

_Irrespectueux._

She must have been imagining the jarring softness on her instructor’s hard face. “You look like you could use some fresh air, no?”

She gave another shaky nod, berating herself for doing so.

“Then go outside for a few minutes. It is no trouble. But before you go, _mon dieu,_ finish putting your shirt on, Bissette! You’ve been talking to me with one empty sleeve this entire time!”

…Oops.

With a flush of embarrassment, Amélie shoved her arm through the sleeve, murmured a quick _merci,_ and headed for the backdoor with her bag in tow.

* * *

The dressing room’s backdoor led to a narrow alleyway behind the theatre. Every sound seemed to echo off of the bricks and garbage cans, from Amélie’s footsteps to the rustling of the wind to the nearby streets of Paris. The streetlight at the entrance of the alley was hardly enough to illuminate anything. Spiders probably hid in the walls. Amélie’s vision blurred as her mouth went dry.

She was alone now, she suddenly realized. No one was there to watch her. No one was going to be there for her. She was left alone with her thoughts, left to deal with them herself.

But because she was alone, she could break down, and before she knew it, she had crumpled behind a dumpster a behind a trash can a short distance from where she had entered the alley.

_Stupide fille._

She sobbed into her knees.

_Crying won’t solve anything._

Distantly, Amélie heard a door creaking open. She didn’t particularly pay attention to it; it was probably a classmate going home after the showcase. But then… she wasn’t alone.

 _Stop crying. Stop it._ Tu petit enfant, **_stop it._**

She heard footsteps. She had to strain to hear them among all the other sounds, but they were there. She didn’t think they were moving towards her. Amélie wanted to sigh in relief and cry for whoever it was to come back at the same time.

Mon dieu, _you really are a mess tonight, aren’t you Amélie?_

A fresh and unwanted wave of tears spilled down her cheeks. But this time, Amélie cried silently; she didn’t want attention. She wanted to be alone. She’s pretty sure that’s what she wanted, anyways.

She missed the footsteps slowly growing louder.

Amélie shuddered out a sob. It had to have been a few minutes by now. Her instructor was probably wondering why she wasn’t back yet. Perhaps she didn’t even to deserve to come back. Not after what happened that night. She knew there had been a slippery patch on the stage. She should have been able to handle it. She had handled it in all of the rehearsals they had at the theatre. There is no excuse.

_Tu es un imbécile. Maladroit, stupide –_

“Is something the matter, _mademoiselle?_ ”

Amélie yelped, gaze snapping in the direction of the unexpected voice. A man was standing in front of the brick wall across from her.

Amélie blinked. He couldn’t have been much older than she was, at the oldest perhaps mid-20’s. She couldn’t see him all that well in the pale moonlight, but she could tell he had dark hair that fell just above his thick glasses. He wore a dark overcoat that went to his mid-thighs with a black tie and white dress shirt underneath. Or at least Amélie thought the shirt was white. She couldn’t quite tell at this hour.

“ _Mademoiselle?”_

Amélie jumped again. A flush crept into her cheeks. She had been staring. Amélie forced herself to look at the man after clearing her throat to compose herself from her crying fit. “ _O-Oui?_ ” She flinched when she heard her stutter.

The man’s eyebrows furrowed, his expression darkening. “Is something upsetting you?” He spoke softly.

Amélie’s gaze dropped back to her knees, hastily wiping tears from her eyes. “It is nothing. Do not concern yourself with it.”

“You are crying; it can’t be nothing.”

Amélie couldn’t think of an adequate response. She settled for staring at her worn sweatpants.

She heard the man sigh. “Well,” He leaned against the bricks behind him, “personally, I thought you were exquisite tonight, _Mademoiselle Bissette_.”

. . .?

Amélie glanced back to him with a raised eyebrow. “ _Quoi?_ How do you know my name? _Qui es-tu_?”

The man smiled gently as he reached into his coat pocket and revealed a small booklet. “I was in the audience at your showcase.”

The program. _Bien sûr,_ her name was listed in it.

Amélie huffed, her lower lip slightly jutting out. “You do not need to flatter me, _monsieur._ Don’t lie for my sake.”

“I’m being truthful, _mademoiselle_. If I’m being honest, I was dragged to your showcase tonight. I did not expect to be drawn into your performance as I was. You captivated me, I must say.”

Amélie’s eyes widened. He was being honest…? She looked back up at him with a gaping mouth. “But… I fell onstage.”

The man chuckled, to Amélie’s dismay and embarrassment. Then, however, he went on to say, “What does it matter? You fell, and you got back up. It was only for a moment. One mistake does not detract from a lovely performance, _mademoiselle Bissette._ ”

. . .

. . .Maybe he had a point. Perhaps she would get cast again. After all, she _did_ get through that difficult _pas de deux._

Amélie’s breakthrough was interrupted by a short _beep._

“Ah, _merde_ ,” The man straightened as he checked the watch on his wrist, “I have to be somewhere. _Ma petite amie_ , I uh… came back here without her knowing.”

Amélie quirked an eyebrow. “Why did you come back here in the first place?”

She thought she saw the man tense the slightest bit. “Well, ah… I needed a moment away from _mon amour,_ with how clingy she can get sometimes, ehhh… I’m sure you know how it is.” His smile seemed forced. Amélie sensed a breakup in their near future.

Before Amélie could say goodbye, the man’s eyes lit up like he had remembered something. “Ah, _je suis désolé_! What kind of gentleman am I?” He held his hand out to Amélie’s curled up form. “Please, let me introduce myself.”

Amélie glanced at his hand before taking it. It was surprisingly warm for the chilly fall air. Once she was standing upright, they shook hands.

“ _Je m’appelle_ Rodrigue Dubois _._ ”

“Amélie Bissette.” Amélie replied, even though he already knew her name. A moment later, Rodrigue let go and turned to leave. Amélie shivered; she already missed the warmth of his hand.

“I hope to cross paths with you again sometime Amélie,” Rodrigue’s eyes seemed to twinkle as he smiled back at her. Amélie suddenly caught a strange urge to beg him to stay.

But before she could act on this impulse, he was already gone. Amélie watched him stride into the Parisian streets, leaving her alone in the alley once more.

She wished she had acted upon her instinct.

But something seemed off about this Rodrigue Dubois. Something wasn’t… right. Amélie’s eyes narrowed as she watched the man in question disappear into the bustle of the city. She remembered his dark brown hair, the eyes that she could tell had seen too much, and the face behind those thick glasses…

_He didn’t look much like a Rodrigue._

* * *

_The name he told me was a lie._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make this chapter longer. I haven’t been too pleased with the length of the previous chapters, but unfortunately, there is only so much Talon allowed Widowmaker to remember about Amélie :(
> 
> French Translations:  
> (Damn there’s a lot of these this time around)  
> Tu es un imbécile – You are an idiot  
> Es-tu d’accord? – Are you okay?  
> Je suis désolé je suis tombée – I am sorry I fell  
> Irrespectueux – Disrespectful  
> Stupide fille – Stupid girl  
> Tu petit enfant – You little child  
> Maladroit – Clumsy  
> Quoi – What  
> Qui es-tu? – Who are you?  
> Bien sûr – Of course  
> Merde – Shit  
> Ma petite amie – My girlfriend  
> Je m’appelle Rodrigue Dubois – My name is Rodrigue Dubois


End file.
